Another pause.

“Lady Isabel?  Yes she was Mr. Carlyle’s wife.”

“And a nice wife she made him!” ironically rejoined Afy.  “You must have heard of it, Madame Vine, unless you lived in the wood.  She elope—­abandoned him and her children.”

“Are the children living?”

“Yes, poor things.  But the one’s on the road to the churchyard—­if ever I saw threatened consumption yet.  Joyce, that’s my sister, is in a flaring temper when I say it.  She thinks it will get strong again.”

Lady Isabel passed her handkerchief across her moist brow.

“Which of the children is it?” she faintly asked.  “Isabel?”

“Isabel!” retorted Afy.  “Who’s Isabel?”

“The eldest child, I mean; Miss Isabel Carlyle.”

“There’s no Isabel.  There’s Lucy.  She’s the only daughter.”

“When—­when—­I knew them, there was only one daughter; the other two were boys; I remember quite well that she was called Isabel.”

“Stay,” said Afy; “now you speak of it, what was it that I heard?  It was Wilson told me, I recollect—­she’s the nurse.  Why, the very night that his wife went away Mr. Carlyle gave orders that the child in future should be called Lucy, her second name.  No wonder,” added Afy, violently indignant, “that he could no lager endure the sound of her mother’s or suffer the child to bear it.”

“No wonder,” murmured Lady Isabel.  “Which child is it that’s ill?”

“It’s William, the eldest boy.  He is not to say ill, but he is as thin as a herring, with an unnaturally bright look on his cheek, and a glaze upon his eye.  Joyce says that his cheeks are no brighter than his mother’s were, but I know better.  Folks in health don’t have those brilliant colors.”

“Did you ever see Lady Isabel?” she asked, in a low tone.

“Not I,” returned Afy; “I should have thought it demeaning.  One does not care to be brought into contact with that sort of misdoing lot, you know, Madame Vine.”

“There as another one, a little boy—­Archibald, I think, his name was.  Is he well?”

“Oh, the troublesome youngster!  He is as sturdy as a Turk.  No fear of his going into consumption.  He is the very image of Mr. Carlyle, is that child.  I say though, madame,” continued Afy, changing the subject unceremoniously, “if you were stopping at West Lynne, perhaps you heard some wicked mischief-making stories concerning me?”

“I believe I did hear your name mentioned.  I cannot charge my memory now with the particulars.”

“My father was murdered—­you must have heard of that?”

“Yes, I recollect so far.”

“He was murdered by a chap called Richard Hare, who decamped instanter.  Perhaps you know the Hares also?  Well, directly after the funeral I left West Lynne; I could not bear the place, and I stopped away.  And what do you suppose they said of me?  That I had gone after Richard Hare.  Not that I knew they were saying it, or I should pretty soon have been back and given them the length of my tongue.  But now I just ask you, as a lady, Madame Vine, whether a more infamous accusation was ever pitched upon?”